Surreptitious Muffin: no use crying vs budgieinspector:Regarding the Second Girl in the Second Verse of "Five Years" (Round 1)

Ok, so this was hard as balls. I liked both these.

Surreptitious Muffin

I think this is a revision away from being awesome. It keeps a lot of balls in the air - heat, cold, rock, mountains, spilt milk, weather, the sky, regret - and can't help but drop a couple, which takes some of the impact away.

For instance the first para, below kicks rear end - simple and sinewy.

“the single worst year of my life,
I slaved under Genghis Khan or some
distant relative in a coalmine
outside Ulaanbaatar. In summer
we burnt and in winter we froze,”

Then you introduce the context and the other organishing set of weathery metaphors

he said, finishing his drink. The straw
played typhoon melodies in the foam;
all grey-brown bruises and spilt milk.

which doesn't play as well as it should with the story being told by our guy. Bringing in spilt milk/regret/the title feels like shoehorning in attention that should be being devoted to our sad Uzbek.

“something in me got froze so bad -
the sun melted it before I even saw
her hot smile; something so small
I never even knew what it was. 400
days and 400 nights I walked the desert
trying to fill a hole that wasn't there.”

Wouldn't be so bad, but I think the turnaround:

Perhaps years passed before his granite
hands made a mountain of matters.

Is cute-witty rather than good witty. You've invoked a mythic quality that doesn't fit with the quotidian nature of sittin' round and milkshakin'.

If you'd managed to nail the turnaround, I think this final para would land its hit better:

then ordered another milkshake and made
a tempest of the drinking. I could see the
colour rising, the bruises fade. The sky
outside was quiet and dour
though inside I touched the heart of a storm.

budgieinspector

This is a v prosey poem, to the point where it would just about work as a short story. The wry Douglas Adams via John Osborne style is deployed consistently and with a diamond-sharp eye for detail that makes me think of Roger Gough.

The subject matter is well-trodden enough that it could be painful in less skilled hands. But lines like 'face painted peach and lifelike', 'desolated flocks of dowdy sparrows waddled in their housecoats and rain bonnets' and 'the bruises she could easily conceal' are killer. And the ending is way more delightful than it should be.

Judgment

I hesitated over this call because I do like both the poems and wondered if I was giving too much credit to Mr Inspector for being accessible, but I think I'm not. This round of the brawl goes to budgieinspector.

Hmm. Well, if I can't even dominate Bad Seafood, what can I do in front of Good Seafood? It'll be weird for the Japanese guy if I bowed in front of the sushi.

Thanks for judging for us No thanks for being a judgmental gobarse, sebmojo. If you even need to know, my 'maggoty cheese' refers to this specific maggoty cheese. I've originally planned my story to be about kæstur hákarl, but 100 words isn't enough to describe buried fermenting shark.

Anyway I wanted to make a proposal: what if the contestants of a thunderbrawl had to analyze in depth the other challenger's writings after the fight is settled, in the same way we have to do with the pairings for the regular contest?

I'm going to suggest that if brawlers want to give in-depth critiques to one another that they do so via PM, only because between Thunderbrawls and Thunderdome submissions and critiques, the thread might get clogged and hard to follow. That would make it both a pain the balls, and (more) intimidating for newbies. Besides, I'm tired of you crying about how nobody understood your piece already. If people don't uderstand what you're trying to do, it's because you're doing it wrong. FACT.

Re: HiddenGecko vs Iroel THUNDERBRAWL 2.0 the prompt is this: Tell me a story about what's outside my window. 150 words. By the time I wake up tomorrow morning, which gives you 14-16 hours.

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.

I'll get you next time, Gadget. (it's best of three, isn't it?)

Fanky's right about the clutter. I think a good idea for future might be that prospective brawlers put "willing to brawl" in their signup post, then the judges get to pick one brawling pair per week. Otherwise the thread'll become crazy difficult to follow.

Yeah, let's not have so many Thunderbrawls next week. Not saying there should be a hard limit or that it sucks, but that people don't just brawl willy-nilly. Also can we stop in-thread discussion of critiques and move that to PMs?

Maybe we should make a separate spinoff thread for Thunderbrawl. What do you guys think?

I would be down for this idea. The spirit of thunderdome is a fairly traditional flash writing contest when it comes down to it (Now with active writer critiquing added in!). And it is very very cluttered.

Thunderbrawls on the other hand are one on one writing shootouts and take three rounds. So a lot of Thunderdome proper gets buried in mad dash of thunderbrawling.

Thus, I think a sister thread is in order.

With approval from the Mods of course. I think a fair compromise would be a beer pong arrangement so only one Thunderbrawl is going on at any time and each group of contestants and judges wait their turn. Instead of the hogpile situation going on right now.

So is the idea then that some goons will announce their Brawl in this thread, then take their prompts, judges and submissions to the Sister Thread?

I think we should divorce it from that, even. Just have another thread where people issue writing challenges and other people can take them up. They can be nonspecific "I'LL FIGHT ANYONE ABOUT ANYTHING" or not "I THINK THE SADDEST RHINO IS A BAD RHINO AND I CHALLENGE HIM TO A LOVECRAFT-HORROR-3-PART-OFF" and people take them up if they feel like.

You both put a ton of effort into these so my critique is equally hard and long.

Benagain

Shape:You chose a piece of poo flying through the air. I found your shape interesting because it was in motion for one thing and you used the spoilered text to signify the fibrous fecal matter flying through the air and a the non spoilered text as movement lines. The tiny little bit of poo that came off in the back is a nice touch.

Now. the other interesting thing you did with the shape is create a column poem! (!!!) you contrast two seemingly different poems using visual motifs. It is also, unwittingly perhaps, an interactive poem since you can't read half of it unless you mouse over it. FINE WORK

Content: You went with a Dark vs. light thing. Now this is one of those fairly cliche things but the way you pulled it off as a whole was very well done. You wrote it all in blank verse as well and had a nice tight economy of words. Poems are not about the literal but you lose points for not really addressing the prompt I gave you at all. You wrote a poem about night and day, love and intimacy. WHERE ARE THOSE CANNED PEACHES, WHERE IS THE GARDENER?

Noah

Shape: You went with a peach, and a very pretty font to boot. you make the words flow around the shape in a rather pleasing if not ordinary way. and the color arrangement did make me go and compare the whole thing to goatse, just to see if you were burying something there I wasn't getting.(But I see it everywhere anyway, its presence or absence has no bearing on my judging at this time though so ignore that.) It's a big pretty peach.

Content: You addressed the prompt head on and really captured the spirit of a lone survivor about to die should he not open that can of peaches. it was almost a little bit too literal in places. But you know what. You were able to capture a moment in time with all of its associated trials and tribulations and make it lyrical, so props for that.

FINAL RULING
This round goes to Noah because he didn't forget about the prompt when writing his poem. This one was drat hard though. You both did awesome.

Round II

What you're writing: A letter. Yes you will be writing this prompt in the form of a single page letter to someone.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistle will give you all the definition you need and some cool history to note.

Here you go Symptomless Coma: 982 words of Iambic Pentameter that draw from Homer, with influences from Virgil, William Blake and the Epic of Gilgamesh. I even managed to squeeze in a nod to Dante. Included are the long list and extended simile that you specifically wanted, and I've tried to adhere to the conventions of the form while telling a story that isn't utterly formulaic. Whether or not this wins, I sincerely hope you like it, as you earned it.

pre:

My voice upraised toward the sky in song,
I call my patron Muse. In youth I would
Frequently write soft words to earn your smile,
Yet now I tarnish every syllable
Invoking you for competition's sake.
The gods of Thunder rule this work be now writ:
With heavy heart to them I must submit.Sing we the song of Cleon's fall with Urn.
Tyger, profane Tyger, burning brightly,
Through forest deep and dry it stalked
Sly Urn and Cleon both, their men long dead
And bronze made molten ruin. Cleon ran
With Urn within his arms and screamed in fear.
Betrayed they both had been, and now the beast
Might burn the towns and kill again. Yet first
It came for Urn the sharp of eye, its mark
Upon his flesh and hunger on its tongues.
Fair Cleon could yet hurl him down and flee,
Hero not he, but bonds of purpose held
The men together fast, as did memory.
Met they within the charnel house, once home
To Urn the sharp of eye, all people gone
As ash upon the wind save he. Sly Urn
With bow accosted Cleon from afar,
Demanding "Who are you to come this way?
Dressed bright in bronze and fair of look are you,
But none know more than I that evil walks
Aflame with grace. Be gone before I shoot
This barb into your heart!" Not idle was
His threat, for many men had met their end
Unknowing whence the blow had came, or how
So small a man could shoot so far and true.
Now Cleon fair removed his helm and laughed,
Stentorian as booming voice that once
Against the edge of all the earth was raised.
He was a man still young and strong, untried
By world, untroubled he, for hopelessly
The path ahead appeared to have no end.
"A target fair I am to you," said he,
"Without this guard upon my head. Might you
Let loose against a man still garbed in bronze
And cut him low, then you may be the sort
To aid this fair villain. For murderous
The course upon which I set out today."
Sly Urn beheld the truth, many the times
Deceit tried creep into the hunter's home.
Like poor Tiresias blind-struck, mere chance
Left him alive but changed for worse compared
To who had he in youth once been. Also
Like poor Tiresias blind-struck, skill rare
Had come in wake of tragedy, the bow
The means allowing Urn to years survive.
Unlike Tiresias blind-struck, no god
With gift or curse had come, his sight still keen,
Still clear the gaze of Urn the sharp of eye.
"The beast you seek: I saw it long ago."
Tyger, profane Tyger, burning brightly,
Through tree and smoke it came for them, narrow
Its eye and fierce its roar. 'Neath canopy
In darkness Cleon stumbled far, heavy
The load of Urn the sharp of eye. For miles
Too great to count he gave a great account:
Onward he pressed when breath had left his chest
And only fear endured. Not only fear!
For kinship held to him when hope had fled
As like a lover holds when lust is spent.
Hero not he, Cleon bereft of bronze
Ran from the boughs and saw the cliffs distantly.
With men in tow across the land they searched,
Until at last its tracks Urn spied upon
The sand beside the cliffs: glassen the steps
Left by the beast. "Now soon," said Cleon bold,
"Revenge will come for Urn the sharp of eye,
Too long delayed." Sly Urn was not impressed.
"For what, or whom," asked Urn, "do you this quest
engage? Some death? Or glory offered you?"
Again fair Cleon laughed, then mirth dispersed
Lest he offend. "This task," said Cleon low,
"To win the praise of maiden bloody, queen
Of all within the stormy northern bowl."
Said Urn, "The deed alone shall satisfy;
Your reasons are your own. Of deed let now
We speak. What means the beast can pacify?
There! See it moved away from sea? Perhaps
A fear we can exploit?" Fair Cleon smiled.
"No need," said Cleon sure, "have we of surf
Or rain to quell our prey. Advised am I
By queen of blood that flame cannot endure
With kin, so suffocate the fiend in fire
And see it snuffed." Sly Urn was not impressed.
"Let us but hope," said Urn, "this queen of blood
Is right. The blaze takes all it gives its mark."
Tyger, profane Tyger, burning brightly,
Through moonless night the pair it chased,
On Urn the sharp of eye its brand. At edge
Of rock fair Cleon stood, there leaning out
To hear the pound of wave on stone as like
The axeman counts the time in beats of drum
With growing dread and tightened gut, waiting
For rare reprieve or time at last his weight
To drop. His legs atremble, Cleon held
Against his breast sly Urn so small and still.
Hero not he, as glowing flame close came
Cleon bereft of bronze stayed resolutely.
In forest deep and dry a trap was set
To catch and kill the seething beast. Know all
Who read these stalwart names how great their work:
Pallas the still, Nestor the old, Stephan
The worthy, Callias serene, spartan
Astro, the tall Alexander, Echo
The simple, Lucas, son of Callias,
Sly Urn and Cleon bright in bronze. All ten
Began the night arrayed against the fiend.
How long they hid! Until at last they heard
When Urn the sharp of eye drew breath and cried
"Tyger, profane Tyger! Burning brightly!"
At once the men to trees set light; behind
The smoke the Tyger slunk. Sly Urn was pale
With memory rekindled, now he looked
Upon that hell again. The moment stretched,
The fire toward the sky climbed high, all coughed...
Then crashing came the Tyger through the wall.
Tyger, profane Tyger, burning too bright,
Made strong by forest set alight, so grew
That beast of fire, titian and dark. To ash
Went eight in flash of hate, and Urn
Blinded. Cleon shed bronze, raised Urn, and fled.
Tyger, profane Tyger, burning brightly,
Approached its prey. As tongues licked rock and scorched
His back, fair Cleon gave decree: "No man
So brave should fall alone!" So then he leapt
To death with Urn, and down into the waves
The Tyger plunged with both, at last snuffed out.
The ocean wept to feel blind Urn embraced,
Her tears of salt welled up to flood the land,
And touching Urn upon his ruined face
Restored his sight, with kiss retreating back.
Hero, he woke as dawn then broke, at peace
To hear fair Cleon's laugh upon the bay.

Is this the same Etherwind I see?
He who quailed and quibbled so?
A warrior now, casting words like arrows.
Poetry like the mightiest army marching in the sun.

Sing we the song of Etherwind the man
Misunderstood by those who would quick judge,
A man no less; came he to make his prose
More durable than bronze, his poesyFar better than the weakness he dared show.

I could have sworn the lower limit was 300. Did it get upped after the post was first made?

I went back to the OP to check the limit just before I posted, and it says 350 min/1,000 max. I thought it was 300 too, but apparently it was wishful thinking. Didn't you just post like, 900 words of Iambic Pentameter anyway? I doubt getting to 350 will be a problem for you.

"It's video games, Scully."Video games?"
"He enlists the help of strangers to make his perfect video game. When he gets bored of an idea, he murders them and moves on to the next, learning nothing in the process.""Hmm... interesting."

So, yeah, what's worse: to submit the 140 words that I have, or not submit at all? I know it's not that EST yet, but I've got another riddle on that time, and I don't know which one of these two makes me more constipated. (I bet the motherfucking poetry.)

On a Branch in the Bordeaux
Two lovers see each other across the branch. One waves and the other waves back. Soon both of their hands are in the air and they’re
swaying together. The little man in black sees his partner and mimics her every move as he edges in closer. She tip toes away, making him work for her prize.

A green shadow wreathed in sharpness lurks above the stage, hands outstretched as if she prays. She watches the dancers, picks one to kill. She moves ever so slowly towards them, a creeping death.

The two lovers are almost touching now. Hours they danced. Finally the kiss, the touch, she smiles, he sways away, takes a bow. Death from above.

The lady scuttles away, her business done, her death averted. The man dies for his love, but he doesn't grieve. He went out with a bang.

So, yeah, what's worse: to submit the 140 words that I have, or not submit at all? I know it's not that EST yet, but I've got another riddle on that time, and I don't know which one of these two makes me more constipated. (I bet the motherfucking poetry.)

So, yeah, what's worse: to submit the 140 words that I have, or not submit at all? I know it's not that EST yet, but I've got another riddle on that time, and I don't know which one of these two makes me more constipated. (I bet the motherfucking poetry.)

Careful Mikhail. You're starting to sound like me.

And it is always worse to submit nothing. Never for a moment should you think otherwise. Even the losertar, in all of its loserness, is still the badge of a warrior.